When Good Enough Is Perfect

On Memorial Day, it took me until six o'clock to realize that while mini-me might appreciate fun decorations and a cookout with friends, she didn't really want a photo-shoot worthy spread. She didn't need one. I didn't need one. What she needed, what she wanted was me, me to just stop and be, not me rushing around trying to create some idyllic staged meal with chic decorations. Not me doing nothing because I couldn't pull off perfection.

At the time she was obsessed with picnics. She had one with the neighbor boy every single day. So I told her to go ahead, and she lugged the old jean quilt out onto the deck all by herself. I stirred some barbecue sauce into leftover pork, set out bread, washed some strawberries. Voila! A picnic. 

It really was that easy. The next part was not. I bit my tongue. I didn't apologize because I hadn't made the deviled eggs I'd promised earlier, or because we didn't have potato chips, or fancy napkins, or friends. 

Mini-man pulled out his own slice of bread, ate half of it, lost the other half in crumbs, crawled through them to reach the strawberries. He was so determined that I gave in and gave him a taste. He ate two. The juice ran down his chin. Pale pink circles grew gradually larger as the juice seeped into his overalls. Mini-me made her own sandwich without spilling so much as a drop of sauce. The air was filled with smiles and little triumphs.

What makes good enough not good enough is apologizing for it--apologizing that it is not something else, that you are not something else, refusing to revel in the beautiful imperfect moment.

Revel. Good enough is perfect 
when we allow it to be.